


No Pain (You Are Receding)

by siriuspiggyback



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Communication Failure, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, accidentally preventing the apocalypse with a conveniently timed mental breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuspiggyback/pseuds/siriuspiggyback
Summary: You are watching your sister scream. You can’t pick out her voice among the ghosts, but you think it probably sounds something like yours, when you were a child and alone in the dark.Or, I decided to try out 2nd person as a little writing experiment, and ended up with almost 7k of what would happen if Klaus breaks down after seeing Vanya locked in her cell. Because revenge killing your brother probably isn't as satisfying when he's catatonic.





	No Pain (You Are Receding)

**Author's Note:**

> so i hope that this actually.. makes sense lmao

For a long time, you have bent under the weight of it all. You have fractured. Fissure lines spreading like a road map, like a bullet in a windshield. The cracks are the beginning of the inevitable.

You think you might finally shatter.

You don’t want to be here.

You are in the mausoleum-

No. 

You are watching your sister scream. You can’t pick out her voice among the ghosts, but you think it probably sounds something like yours, when you were a child and alone in the dark. Luther calls your sister dangerous, and she bangs her little fists against the door.

You are in the mausoleum. No, you are in a closet in a motel. You are in a foxhole in Vietnam, and you are in the basement of your family home.

You aren’t too sure where you are, but you don’t want to be here.

That’s okay, because it’s all getting far away. Distant. You think you are falling backwards, but not your body, no, you are falling back  _ inside _ of your body. Your eyes are open, but the images are a bit further away, and everything is a little quieter. That’s okay by you. You didn’t want to be there anyway.

The voices get a little louder, and you would complain if you could find your mouth, so you just listen with half an ear. They are saying words like  _ high _ and  _ selfish  _ and  _ wrong _ and you don’t like it. They are male voices, deep and rumbling, but they aren’t the  _ right _ voice, and then they seem to fade out again. Or maybe you are the one who’s fading.

_ Klaus _ , they say. You think that might be you.

You suspect that you might be a ghost. You think about hitting your head on the sticky floor at that rave. You don’t seem to have a body anymore, you don’t think. You don’t feel alive. You feel like a shadow. You think that it’s okay. If this is death, it’s not so bad.

Then a hand touches you, and there is a noise of surprise which might have come from you, so you think that you do have a body after all, even if you keep losing it. The hand is tugging, insistent, pulling you up - were you sitting, before? - and onto your feet, except you aren’t sure where your feet  _ are _ , so it’s hard to stay on them. Someone is yelling, and they don’t sound like a ghost, but you don’t think it matters too much. You are being moved forward, somewhere away from here, and you think that it might be a good thing. The hands are tight, and you think that it might hurt, but you aren’t sure. It feels very far away, the hands, your arms. Like maybe they aren’t your arms at all.

You are on a bed. That’s nice. 

Things get quiet, and time passes, probably. It gets dark. You think that it’s bad, or it should be, but you can’t remember why it matters, or what you could do about it, and then thinking feels too hard so you stop. 

You drift. 

There's something in your hands, you absently note. You've been holding it long enough that it doesn't really feel like anything at all, despite the way the metal cuts into your palms. You keep holding on. As long as you hold on, everything will be okay.

Your face is wet, but you don't know why.

At some point, you start shaking.

No, that's not right.

The earth is shaking. 

Someone set off a mine, probably, maybe it's an ambush, and you should probably get down, except that you're already down-

No. That's. That's not right.

Someone is talking, telling you to run, but they’re dead, so what do they know?

The shaking has turned to shuddering, the house groaning along with the ghosts.

And another sound. Someone speaking. The voice is feminine and familiar and angry and cold, but you can't quite place it. You could look and see who it is, except you can't remember how. You aren't sure that your eyes are open. The sounds refuse to form into meaning - maybe she’s speaking another language? Vietnamese? - but you get the impression that the words are for you. You should listen. Listen. 

The shaking stops.

Someone is touching your face, brushing your cheeks. Brushing away the wetness there. 

The voice comes again, softer this time, sad.  _ Klaus,  _ it says. You remind yourself that this is you, your name. A hand brushes through your hair. It's nice. Your face is still wet.

There's shouting, you notice, in the distance, but getting closer. Familiar shouting. Your CO? He'll get mad if he finds you in bed, you think, except you aren't there anymore, are you? 

The hand in your hair disappears. You don't like that, and you want to tell them to come back, but your tongue is a dead thing in your mouth, so all that comes out it a desperate sort of noise, but it must have made sense because the hand comes back and the voice too, saying nice things like  _ it's okay _ .

The shouting still gets louder, until it's right there next to you, and it's too loud, saying words like  _ dangerous  _ and  _ dad  _ and you don't like it, not at all, but then you go away again and you don't hear it anymore.

  
  


The next time you notice anything, it's hands on yours. 

That's nice, you think, except for how they're not just holding, they're prising your hands open, and they're taking-

They're trying to take-

No.

You're saying things, yelling,  _ no no no no no,  _ or maybe you aren't making words at all, you're not sure because all you can think is  _ you can't take him, not him. _

You don't want these hands on you any more, and you're clawing at them wildly, one handed because you can't let him go, until they stop trying to take him, except more hands come and that's  _ worse _ , and you're struggling against them, your fist colliding with someone, and you can't remember if they're ghosts or Viet Cong but you want them  _ gone _ .

Something pricks your arm, and you go away again.

  
  


You're awake again and your mom is humming by your side. There's a needle in the vein at the crook of your elbow, but it's a familiar sensation and you don't worry about it too much. She says some words to you, but you're too tired to decipher them, and then she leaves. You don't want her to, but at least when you're alone with the ghosts, no one expects you to think about anything. She kisses your forehead as she goes.

Someone else comes in sometime after. He says a lot of words, but you only catch a few:  _ sober _ and  _ Vanya  _ and  _ didn't realise _ . It takes you awhile to give them a name. Diego. Diego. Your brother. 

He had fallen quiet without you noticing. You should probably say something, but words seem abstract and distant right now, like a memory of a dream. You just breathe instead. 

Diego comes over and takes your arms in his hands. For a moment, you finch away, afraid that he'll take Dave away, but he just pulls you upright instead. You wobble, but you don't fall. He starts pushing you out of the room, wheeling a metal pole behind you, and you move obediently. 

He leads you to the bathroom, and looks away, embarrassed. Your needs suddenly make themselves known, and you unzipper one handed to take a piss. Once you're done, you do your trousers back up, and stand there, because you can't remember what comes next and you're so damn _ tired. _

Eventually, Diego reaches past you to press the flush.  _ Oh yeah _ , you think. Then you're led over to the sink, and Diego turns on the tap, squeezes out some soap. He massages it into your hands, and you watch with a vague sort of fascination. His hands are broad and darker than yours, although yours are darker than usual, tanned from the jungle and stained darker still from Dave's blood. 

You blink and you're back in the bed. You can't remember how you got there. It doesn't worry you.

Vanya and Allison are sat by your bed. You thought there was something significant about Allison being there, but you can’t quite reach that thought, and then you forget what you were thinking about. Ben is perched on the desk.

A scritching sound. A notepad is held in front of your face. You blink, and blink again, but the ink doesn’t resolve into words. The notepad disappears. You blink.

Vanya speaks, and you’re not sure if she’s addressing you or Allison but you’re not sure that it matters anyway. Allison goes, and comes back sometime later with a bowl of something steaming. Vanya pulls you upright and shoves pillows behind you to prop you up, and Allison puts the bowl in your lap. You look at it. You blink. You look at it.

Allison takes the hand not wrapped around Dave’s dog tags, and puts a spoon in it. Then, she wraps a hand around yours and guides it up to your mouth, and you wonder if that’s what she used to do with Claire. Then you finally make the connection that your supposed to be eating, and swallow a mouthful of… some kind of soup. It mostly tastes like nothing. She withdraws her hand, and you repeat the process, even though your arm feels heavy and you can’t quite remember why you’re doing it in the first place. 

You must have zoned out again, because then Allison takes the spoon up and the next mouthful is cold. 

You close your eyes, and Allison takes the hint and stops trying to make you eat. 

You’re so tired.

You dream.

You dream in memories.

You wake up screaming.

There are hands on you, on your arms, pulling your hands from where they were pulling on your hair, and you try to reach for your dog tags instead, but the hands won’t let you, and you don’t want these hands on you because they aren’t the right hands, aren’t his hands, and it’s too much, it’s too much, and people are screaming, shouting, and it’s so loud-

“I want Dave,” you say. And then, because these seem to be the only words that matter, you say it again. “I want Dave. I want Dave, I want Dave, I want Dave-”

You’re chanting the words like a prayer, but you know Dave isn’t coming, because Dave bled into the jungle dirt underneath your hands just a few days ago.

People are still screaming, and others touching you, trying to talk to you, so you say the words louder, trying to drown out all the others sounds before they drown you. 

More yelling, but then the hands pinning you down suddenly release, and you curl inwards and clutch Dave’s tags like a lifeline, and you mumble your words against the cool metal until your voice fades away and you’re just mouthing along. Someone fusses around you, righting the IV stand where it was knocked down, and pulling sheets back over you, but no one touches you again so you don’t mind too much.

You fall asleep again, and this time, you don’t dream. 

When you awake, your face is damp and your eyes ache. You feel more present than you have in a while. It doesn’t feel like a good thing. 

Someone is sat by your bedside. Diego. He’s watching you, and he sits up when your eyes make contact.

“Hey, bro,” he says. 

You blink at him.

He watches you with those big dark eyes. 

“How are you feeling? Think you can eat something?” he asks.

With what feels like monumental effort, you lift one shoulder in a miniscule shrug.

“Okay!” says Diego with more enthusiasm than strictly required. “I’ll go ask mom to make something - I’ll be right back.”

You watch as he darts out of the room, and then you’re alone, or as alone as you ever are. 

“What’s going on, man?”

You search Ben out with slow eyes. He’s stood with his arms crossed, his  _ listen-to-me  _ stance, but his eyes are worried. 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just breathe instead.

“I’ve never seen you like this, Klaus. Everyone’s kind of freaked out,” says Ben.

You close your eyes. You don’t want to think about that, think about what this must look like to his siblings. 

_ Weak. _

Diego returns at that moment. He sits back in his chair, but this time he isn’t looking at you. You’re too tired to work out why.

“Mom’s making waffles,” he says.

It’s your favourite. Your chest hurts.

“If you want to- talk. Ab-b-bout- whatever happened or, y’know. You can tell me,” Diego tells you.

You open your mouth. No words come. You close it again.

You’re so tired.

Diego deflates. “Okay,” he says.

When mom comes in with the waffles, she strokes your hair and tells you to feel better soon. It feels bitter on your tongue. 

Diego nudges you into sitting up and eating. You nibble at a waffle, but it tastes like cardboard, and you aren’t hungry anyway. You let the mostly-full plate sit in your lap until someone takes it away.

You sleep, maybe. Your eyes are closed, at least, and you drift in a wave of haziness, but you can still hear the ghosts, so you don’t think you’re really sleeping at all. Somewhere between the two, perhaps. 

Your siblings are in your room. They are talking about you.

It takes you awhile to notice, at first, because their voices blend with the ghosts, but eventually you pick up on their familiar tones. 

“-don’t have time for this.”

“He’s our brother!” This was Diego.

“We still don’t know  _ how _ the apocalypse was averted. I think that takes precedence over one addict.” Five.

“He’s sober, remember? And he needs our help!” Vanya.

The sound of pen on paper, and a brief silence. You suddenly remember. Allison.

Luther speaks up. “We’ve all been kind of busy.”

“That’s no excuse,” snapped Vanya. You feel a tremor run through the room. “Sorry.”

“Actually, I- I did talk with him, a little. A few days ago. He was acting weird,” said Diego.

“And you’re only telling us now?” Luther asks.

“It seemed kind of personal,” defends Diego.

“Well, what happened?” questions Five, tone impatient. 

Diego clears his throat. “He asked me to drop him off at some VA bar - veterans of foreign wars - and I followed him inside. He was… he was staring at some photo on the wall, crying. And then he started a fight with a vet.”

“That doesn’t sound like Klaus,” murmurs Vanya.

“Yeah. So I- asked him about it. He told me he lost someone.”

Allison’s pen creaks. 

“Oh. That would make sense,” said Diego. “I’ve never heard of a Dave before, though. And the whole thing in the vets bar?”

“I think I can explain that,” interjected Five. “He recently time travelled.”

“He what?” asked Luther.

“He was kidnapped by Hazel and Cha-Cha, and escaped with the briefcase. He then time travelled, and remained in that time period for just under a year before returning.”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” said Vanya. “He was kidnapped?”

“Yes. They took Klaus when they attacked the house.”

“And no one noticed?” she asked.

Silence.

“Okay, so where did he go?” questioned Luther.

“I didn’t ask.”

Diego growled, “ _ You didn’t-” _

“But, based on what you said, I would assume the Vietnam War.”

“Vietnam? No way,” said Luther.

Five huffed. “Don’t be dim. The dogtags? The tattoo? The VA bar? It all makes sense.”

“But, I mean- it’s  _ Klaus.” _

“He did say something about being a vet at that bar,” muttered Diego.

“God. A year in the Vietnam War,” breathed Vanya. “No wonder he’s…”

“Fuck.”

A pause. And then- “I don’t think we’re equipped to deal with him. We should start thinking about-”

“Luther,” says Diego, a warning.

“-sending him somewhere to get help.”

The room shudders. “Typical Luther; as soon as one of your siblings become a problem, you want to lock them up.” 

“It’s not like that!”

A creak of a floorboard. The sound of fabric shifting.

“Thanks, Allison,” whispers Vanya. The house settles.

“I just don’t think this is the best place for him to be,” says Luther. “We don’t know how to help someone like this.”

“Oh, because some random facility will? They have a lot of experience with time-travelling war vets who can see ghosts?” snipes Diego.

“At least they know how to deal with someone who’s- y’know.”

“Klaus would hate it,” says Vanya. “He never even lets anyone take him to the hospital.”

“It might still be for his own good,” sighs Five.

Ben says your name, close to your ear. He sounds worried. 

“Klaus?” says Diego.

“Hey, Klaus, just breathe,” says Ben.

Oh. You’re hyperventilating.

A lot of people are saying a lot of words, like  _ panic attack _ and  _ count to five,  _ but that all seems rather inconsequential when you can’t breathe. Your lungs are burning and shrinking and you’re choking on air, gasping, and your heart is hammering in your chest. You try to focus on something, anything, but all you can see are the grey walls of the mausoleum closing in.

“Please,” you say, “please.”

“What? What is it, Klaus?” someone says.

“Please don’t lock me up somewhere,” you say, and then the words that have been trapped inside are spilling out, overflowing, a tidal wave. “Please, I’ll be good, just don’t send me away somewhere, I don’t want to go, I don’t want- I can’t breathe-”

“Klaus,” someone says, and someone is holding your hand but you don’t know who.

“I want Dave, I want Dave, I want my pills, I don’t want to feel this, please, I can’t!”

“Klaus, you need to take a breath,” says Diego. Diego is holding you hand. You reach out and cling to him by his shirt sleeves.

“Please, Diego, please-”

“We’re not sending you anywhere, okay, just breathe-”

“I can’t do it anymore, I want it to stop, I want it to stop,” you babble, and you’re crying now, chest heaving with sobs. “I can’t, I can’t, please, please, I can’t. I- no, no, no, please, I just want to die, I just want to die-”

And Diego pulls you forward so that you collapse into him, weeping into his chest. His arms come around you and hold you tight, rocking you slightly, hushing you like a child. “I got you,” he says. “It’s okay, bro, I got you.”

“Please, please,” you say, “don’t-”

“We won’t,” says Vanya, “just breathe.”

“I don’t- I don’t,” you whimper, tears soaking into Diego’s shirt, and then you stop talking because and awful wail is ripping itself from your chest, and you think you can understand now why the ghosts scream all the time, if they feel like this.

Someone else is crying now, too, you think, you made your sister cry, and you hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop crying. You haven’t cried this hard since the mausoleum, and  _ no don’t think about that. _

You sob so hard until you wretch, pushing away from Diego so that you can heave onto the floor instead. Allison is quick to shove the bin underneath you, before you bring up the little that was in your stomach, mostly acid and bile. Tears drip down your nose and join the mess.

When you’re done, the bin is taken away, and you are eased back onto the bed. Diego is perched on the edge, and he lets you bury your face into his shoulder so that you don’t have to look at your siblings or the ghosts. You’re still crying, but not as hard as before, breath hitching almost silently.

“I’m so sorry,” says Vanya, “I didn’t know-”

You shake your head, motion inhibited by where you knock into Diego. “No,” you say, “It’s okay,” and it’s a lie, but you’re used to those, so it shouldn’t burn in your mouth the way it does now.

You catch the sound of Allison’s pen scribbling fast, and then Luther says, “Allison says it’s not okay, and that we’ll try to be better siblings.”

Something about that sets you off again, shoulders shaking. “You don’t need to-” you stutter over your words, “you shouldn’t have to-”

“You’re our b-brother,” interrupts Diego, “we’re supposed to look out for you.”

You make a pained noise.

“Stop,” says Luther, “you’re upsetting him.”

“No,” says Five, more quiet than you’ve ever heard him, “there are some things he needs to hear.”

Allison is writing again, but you guess it’s not for you, because Luther just says, “Oh.”

When you (finally) stop crying, after a minute or two of just breathing, Diego says, “Think you can eat something? Pretty sure you threw up those waffles.”

You croak out, “Okay.”

“I can get mom?” suggests Luther.

“He should probably have something simple,” says Five.

Vanya says, “I can make toast?”

“Toast is- fine,” you say. 

“Okay,” says Vanya, seemingly eager to leave. “You’ll need to drink as well. Water? Or coffee? No, I’ll bring both.”

“I’ll help,” volunteered Five, following her down. 

You are left with Diego, Allison and Luther. 

When you dare to remove yourself from where you’re hiding your face in Diego, you see that Allison has taken the chair, looking pale but determined as ever. Luther is standing by the door, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, in what seems to be an effort to make himself smaller. You are painfully aware of yourself in a way that you haven’t been since before Vanya- before they locked up-

You don’t want to think about that.

“Sorry,” you mutter, half out of guilt and half out of desperation to break the awful silence that has settled. 

“Don’t,” says Diego, voice hard, and you can’t help but flinch away. He stiffens at the feeling, and you feel yourself flush with shame, but neither of you mention it.

“I just don’t understand,” says Luther, “why didn't you tell us about what happened.”

Allison whacks him with her notepad, and you almost smile at the gesture.

“I just- I thought I could deal with it,” you say.

“But- you’re not-... I mean, you’re usually so loud about everything.”

The words sting.

“Shut up, Luther,” says Diego, all threatening, and you hate it, hate that you’ve caused this.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

Luther says, “I don’t mean-”

“It’s okay,” you repeat. “I know… what I’m like.”

You know how hard you are to love. You think of Dave, the miracle that he was. You know that you won’t get a second miracle. Lightning never strikes twice, but you were loved once, and you hold onto that as you hold onto his dog tags.

Vanya and Five return, plying you with toast and coffee and water and a little bowl of sliced fruit. You bite into the toast, mostly to appease your siblings. They watch you like hawks, but you don't know what they're watching you for. You hate it. You feel observed, the same way you did through your childhood, cameras at every corner. 

"Y'know, when I wrote that book," Vanya says, voice stronger than you remember, "I thought I knew you. I'm realising now that I never did, did I? I was wrong, maybe about you most of all, Klaus."

You stop eating, start picking the toast apart. "I read it, y'know, in rehab."

The air is thick with tension. "Yeah?"

"Some of it was right," you say. You don't don't know why you say it. You had so much to say about it, before, hurtful barbs stored away. You can't remember them now.

"It was- a shitty thing to do," says Vanya.

Diego takes sharp breath.

You shrug. "I never did anything to convince you I was more than just a good-for-nothing junkie."

"You're our brother," says Diego. "You shouldn't have to convince us that you matter."

You feel small. You're shrinking.

"I am sorry," Vanya says, voice pained. "And I want to get to know you. If you'll let me."

You almost laugh. As much as you denied it, to Ben, to yourself, isn't this what you've always wanted? For someone to ask, to take an interest? Be careful what you wish for, you think. You might just get it. 

How could you possibly let her know you? It would be an act of violence against her, to let her poke around your brain. How do you tell someone that you stopped being a person the day you were locked in that fucking mausoleum, that you're just a hole, a rotting pit in summer heat, a shallow grave and the body inside? 

"You don't want that," you say.

"Yes, I do," she insists. 

"You don't. No one wants that. Even I don't want to know me." You laugh, and the sound is that of glass breaking underfoot, jagged and brittle 

"Why are you saying that?" She asks. Innocent as a lamb.

You think of your father and Luther and the word useless. You think about waking up on the floor of a rave. You think of the first time you had sex - the way he thrust into you, and the way he threw you a baggie of ecstasy after, not looking at you once. You think of Dave, the only person who loved you, and the way he died loving you, and the knowledge that you would never be loved again settling in your gut like a stone.

You don't say any of that. You say, "You don't have to be nice just because I'm crazier than usual."

She flinches. You close your mouth. This is exactly what you were worried about.

"Can we stop acting like you're the only fucked up person here? We're a bunch of emotionally repressed idiots," says Five.

You hang your head. It's true; everyone here has their trauma, and you're the only one having a meltdown over it.

"Not helpful," says Diego.

"What I'm trying to say," Five grinds out, "is that we're well equipped to understand."

You think it's a nice sentiment. You also think it's untrue.

"Sure, because you guys have always been so sympathetic, always take me seriously," you say. You regret the words as you fling them from your mouth.

"You make it hard to take you seriously," Luther says.

You wish you were somewhere else. You wish you could disappear into your head, the way you did before.

You think of the pills in the stuffed unicorn. It's so close to you. You pick it up, and open up the slit you made, digging around inside like you're trying to take a bullet out of flesh. You produce a little bag of bliss.

"Klaus," says Ben, unheard.

You pass the bag to Diego. "I need you to get rid of them."

"Okay," he agrees. The room has turned uneasy.

A pause.

"You- did you fight in the Vietnam War?" Luther questions.

"Yep," you say, relaxing slightly because this was the easier stuff. "Ten months."

"Jesus. Why did you stay?"

You shrug. "At first, I was scared that I might try to get back and end up in the medieval times. And then," you swallow tightly, "I fell in love."

Diego says, "What was her name?" and wow, they're really don't know you, do they?

"His name was Dave," you say, and if saying his name didn't feel like being stabbed in the gut, you might have found it funny.

You wait for the inevitable question, because Dave hadn't come back with him.

Allison shows him her notebook. 

_ What was he like? _

You smile. The first genuine smile since Dave. 

"He was… kind. Strong. Vulnerable.  _ Beautiful.  _ Just… beautiful," you say, and the words aren't enough but they're all you have. You could talk about Dave for the rest of your life and never find enough words. “And he loved me.”

“Can't you just summon him?” Luther says, blunt.

“I tried. I tried, okay? He didn’t show,” you say, and wish your voice was steady.

“Maybe you just need more time,” Vanya suggests kindly.

“Or he's moved on.”

“On?” asks Five.

“Y’know,” you say, wiggling your hand in a vague gesture. “Wherever spirits go when they don't stick around.”

“Oh. Can you still summon people who’ve moved on?” Vanya questions.

You share a look with Ben and say, “Hell if I know. It's not like I control them; the ghosts do whatever the hell they want.”

Five demands, “What does that mean?”

You shrug. “Like I said, I don't control them. I just see them.”

“Wait, do you see them… always?” Diego says.

You blink. Sure, you've never talked much about your powers, but it was never a secret. “Yeah,” you say slowly.

“What are they like?” whispers Vanya.

Your mouth goes dry, and you don’t look over at the young woman in the corner holding her guts in with shaking hands, or the soot covered boy who coughs and sobs and coughs again at the foot of your bed. “That’s not something you want to hear about.”

“Why not?” asks Luther. 

You smile, falling back on your default careless grin. “It’s a little early on to be telling ghost stories, isn’t it? Everyone knows that you save those for before you go to bed,” you say.

“Would it kill you to be serious for once?” Luther bites out, hands in fists, and you pretend that your heart doesn’t speed up at the sight.

“Historically? Sometimes.”

“Why won’t you tell us about the ghosts?” asks Five, stern and interrogative.

“I  _ told  _ you, you don’t want to hear it,” you tell him.

Allison scribbles out  _ we do, please tell us. _

“Oh, really?” you say, and you know that your voice is tinged with hysteria, but they spill out faster than you can stop them. “Because I’ve tried, okay? Don’t pretend I’ve never tried before, and I was called a liar or attention seeking or childish. Every. Time.”

Luther is quick to deny, “That isn’t true.”

“When we were seven, I told Five that the ghosts wouldn’t let me sleep. He told me to grow up. When I was nine, I told Allison that my personal training sessions were getting bad, and she told me that everyone hated personal training, to suck it up. I told Diego that I wanted to get clean, but I didn’t know how. He told me to man up, that I was being weak. We were  _ fourteen.  _ And when Ben- when Ben died, I  _ told you-” _

“Shut up,” hissed Luther, “Don’t lie about that, don’t you dare.”

You laugh, half choking on it, and the sound is dark and hollow like the crypt your father locked you in. Nothing has changed, and nothing ever will, and you are  _ so tired _ of how it is.

Diego cuts in. “You were high, Klaus. You were high as hell and laughing at his funeral, you can’t blame us for thinking-” 

All of a sudden, you can’t bare it, how full this room is of your siblings and hauntings and you want them gone. “Get out,” you say, head buzzing. “Get out!”

“Klaus-” Vanya says entreatingly, but the air is running out and you need them gone.

“Get out! Get the fuck out!” you screech, shoving Diego away where he tried to hold you, because you don’t want them here, you don’t want to be here-

“We’re going, okay?” says Vanya, pulling Diego after her when he refuses.

The last of your living siblings leave the room.

You croak, “I said get out.”

Ben’s jaw goes slack with surprise. “Klaus?”

You meet Ben’s eyes. “Go.”

A look of hurt flashes across Ben’s face, and you feel it like it were your own pain, and then he fades out. 

You’re finally alone.

Or, as alone as you ever are when you’re sober.

You rest your head on your knees and wish you hadn’t given Diego your stash. 

  
  


There’s only one person that you want right now, and you spend the next hour trying to conjure him, your hands curled around dog tags and mouth feverishly praying to the little girl in the sky. 

No one comes. 

  
  


It is dark by the time you hear your siblings gathered outside of your bedroom door. You had spent the time alternating between crying, craving, and failing to summon your love. Your head is aching and your body feels stiff from lying down for so long, but you can’t find the energy to get out of bed - probably the only reason you are sober right now.

After much hushed, heated debate, Diego shuffles inside, a tray of food balancing on one hand as he shuts the door on the rest of your siblings. “Hey, bro,” he greets you, plopping the tray down in your lap. You sigh. It seemed all anyone wants to do nowadays was make you eat. 

Ben follows Diego in, undeterred by the closed door. He doesn’t look at you. 

“Hey,” you say, voice still thick from crying.

“You gotta eat something,” says Diego, nodding towards the tray. It holds some pasta - by the smell, mom had made it - and garlic bread and salad and you have no appetite at all. Still, you pick up your fork and spear some pasta, Diego watching all the time.

When you’ve robotically chewed your way through half the pasta, Diego says, “I didn’t mean to upset you, earlier.”

You don’t look up from your meal. “But you still don’t believe me about Ben.” It isn’t a question.

“I believe that you think you’ve seen him,” hedged Diego.

Your hand clenches around your fork. “That’s not- he’s  _ real _ , Diego.”

“Can you see him right now?” 

“Yeah,” you say quietly, chancing a look up at Ben. He’s watching Diego with a wistful expression. “He’s leaning on the desk, right there.”

Diego glances over. His gaze slides over where Ben is. “Right.”

“And I’m sober.”

“Yeah.”

You throw down your fork, defeated. “I’m not denying that I probably have enough mental illness to fill a book, but this isn’t one of them,” you say. 

Diego says, “Okay.”

You realise then that nothing you do will ever be enough. You’ve already dug your own grave, and it’s too deep to climb out of. Your siblings look at you and see the court jester, and you’ll never be more. Even now that the king is dead. 

Nothing you say will convince them.

“Please leave,” you say.

This time, he doesn’t argue.

  
  
  


If you face the hard truth, the one that you’ve been skirting the edges of since the night of the rave, you see this: you have been alive for twenty nine years, and you’ve been dead at least as many times. If you are honest with yourself in a way that you rarely are, you know that this isn’t normal; no, this isn’t even  _ possible.  _ There’s only so many times a heart can be revived before it’s too damaged to keep pumping. Not to mention the times where no paramedic had shocked it back to beating. The times you woke when Ben had never expected you to wake again: after a night sleeping in the snow; when you had taken enough heroin to seize; after being strangled until your limbs had stopped twitching. You brushed it off as good luck, the universe making up for cursing you with these god forsaken powers. Ben was never quite so easy to convince, but he shut up when you threatened to get so high that you couldn’t hear him anymore.

Yet, for someone who is more familiar with the sensation than most, you can’t recall ever feeling as dead as this.

You feel grey. Empty. A void where a person should be. You know, logically, that you’re alive. You breathe. You cry. You eat, and piss, and sleep, and wake. You speak to the living, and the living speak to you. 

Logically.

Still, you don’t feel it.

You are less than a ghost. An echo. A shadow. 

You think that Dave dying scooped you out, and left you a corpse. You didn’t know how to be without him, not anymore. But what else is there to do?

So, you breath. Eat, piss, sleep, wake. You try to conjure Dave. You fail. 

You consider going out, finding a high. Something to fill the cavernous space inside you. 

For the first time in your life, you don’t want that.

It feels wrong. Disloyal. That space belonged to Dave, and trying to put anything else there felt sacrilegious. You could fill it with pills and needles and touches from strangers, until you became the Klaus you were before Dave. Until you forget. 

You don’t want to forget.

You hate how far you are from him. In the haze and shock of battle, you had left Vietnam behind. Now, you crave it. You want to see the other people who had known Dave, who knew that he was real, and not a desperate figment of your lonely psyche.

You don’t know how to feel closer to him. You don’t know how to feel alive.

You don’t remember how you got to the roof. 

Ben is saying your name. He sounds worried. You think that’s reasonable. It doesn’t matter how many times your watch your brother come back to life, it’s still going to be alarming to see them on a ledge. 

Your feet are bare and the roof is leeching the warmth from them. Your toes curl on the edge, wiggling in the empty space. You rock onto the balls of your feet, testing your balance. Fall forward? Fall back?

If you fall forward, would she let you see Dave before she sends you back?

Fall forward. 

Fall back.

Forward.

Back.

You hear the roof access door slam open. 

“Guys! He’s up here!” Luther bellows.

Forward.

Back.

“Klaus, come on,” Ben says.

Forward. 

Back.

A hand touches your shoulder.

You flinch, an involuntary motion, twisting to see this new threat. 

You overbalance.

Forward.

_ “Klaus!” _

You topple forward, feel Luther’s fingers skim your arm and miss. 

You close your eyes, and brace for impact.

A hand catches your wrist.

Your shoulder is jarred as you come to a stop, dangling in mid air. You sway slightly, feet kicking and finding no traction. You look up.

“Ben?”

Your brother is there on his knees, awe on his face, looking down at where is hand was holding you tight. He looks at you, wide eyed. Then, he looks up to where Luther stands, watching the scene unfold, stunned. “Help me pull him up!”

Luther, as always, is quick to follow the command, his large hands grabbing you and pulling you back onto the roof. When he releases you, you stumble and fall on your ass, unable to look away from Ben. Your hands are glowing blue.

“Holy shit- Ben?”

The rest of your siblings are funneling out onto the roof, gaping at you, at Ben.

You start laughing.

It bubbles up, all adrenaline and disbelief, until you’re curling up, clutching your stomach with it. Tears are escaping your eyes, but you can’t stop. Every time you catch a glimpse at the dumbstruck expressions around you, you burst out giggling all over again. Ben looks at you, and then he’s laughing too, doubling over, hands over his mouth. 

“You just Patrick Swayze’d me!” you wheeze. 

A familiar thwip and flash of light, and then Five is by your side. “Ben-” he whispers, reaching a hand out but not touching.

“Five,” says Ben, sobering. He looks at his hand as he brings it up to touch Five’s, and gasps. “Holy shit, you can really see me!” 

And then the glow around your hands fizzles out.

“Ben?” Five turns to you. “Where did he go?”

Ben deflates. You shoot him a sympathetic smile. “He’s still right there.”

“You were telling the truth,” says Luther blankly.

Silence settles as your siblings absorb that. You watch how Diego clenches his fists; how Vanya reaches for Allison’s hand. Pain and hope and regret flicker over their faces, and your heart twists in your chest. You can’t imagine how you would have survived if Ben had actually been gone all those years.

Then, Diego grabs you and drags you up into a bone crushing hug. “What the fuck, Klaus? What were you thinking?” he growls.

“In my defense, I didn’t even know that I  _ could _ do that.”

“What? No, I don’t mean about Ben, I mean- why would you try to-” Diego stutters.”

“Oh!” you say in sudden realisation. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself!”

Diego pulls you away to shoot you a look of disbelief.

“That’s generally what happens when you jump off rooftops,” snapped Five.

You blurt out, “But I can’t die.”

“What?”

“What do you mean-”

“Are you serious?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

That last question came from Luther. You look over at him and raise an eyebrow. “You guys don’t have a history of believing me. Remember?”

“Right,” said Luther, dropping your gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” you say, because there was no way that Luther had just apologised.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, contrite. “And… if you’re willing to talk… I think we’re all ready to listen now.”

You look around at your siblings, who stare back, earnest and repentant. You turn to Ben. He shrugs, a half smile on his face. 

You take a shaking breath.

“We’re going to need… like, a lot of coffee. It’s a long story.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> please let me know if this actually worked or if it was just nonsense


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